Autumn wind of eve, blow away the clouds that mass
by Sleep-Deprived000
Summary: The life of a samurai was a hard one: "He didn't know how it happened, but it did. His sword was soaked in blood, his armour covered in grime, and he only wanted to sleep. Damn the war, and damn whatever idiot thought getting the samurai involved was a good idea." OC-centric!
1. Chapter 1

Summary: The life of a samurai was a hard one: "He didn't know how it happened, but it did. His sword was soaked in blood, his armour covered in grime, and he only wanted to _sleep_. Damn the war, and damn whatever idiot thought getting the samurai involved was a good idea." OC-centric!

Warnings: OC-centric, descriptions of violence, slash (much, much later on in the story), het, mild altering of canon plotline…lots of death and misery?

A/N: I don't actually know what this is, but it bit me in the middle of the night like a bloody mosquito and _just wouldn't let go_. It's OC-centric, and while I'm not planning on making it epic-length, I think it will reach quite a respectable word count. Cultural notes and the additional research I do can be found at the bottom of the chapter, and while not necessary, I think it can be helpful in understanding some aspects of the story, or just make them clearer.

-ooo-

There is an unusual chill penetrating his bones as he stands at the edge of the mountain. The valley spreading out under his feet is dark at the bottom, the ground covered with frosted-over lichen and sharp rocks slick with ice, half-hidden beneath a thin, twisting mist—but he's not thinking about that. The tears on his face have long-since dried, but he can still hear her voice in his head, alarmed and urgent, and feel the painful clamp she had around his wrist. There's a mark on a ledge near the bottom now, a patch of dark poppy-red unseen in this country apart from when blood is spilled, and he feels his throat close up with something unidentifiable.

 _Don't cry,_ she'd often said. _You cannot afford to,_ his mother had added, but he still feels sick with the thoughts shifting through his head. He won't cry, has no tears left, but it is still painful, and his heart clenches in his chest.

The wake had been long, but the vigil he had kept over her cold, pale body had seemed short. Her eyes had been closed, dark blood gathering under them in smudged half-rings, and though she wore her kimono properly, he cannot help but think she'd prefer her armour. Her swords had been left next to the wooden coffin as a mark of her service, and he envisages vaguely the satisfied smile she would have worn at that, content that she would leave the world as she had lived—with her swords at her side.

 _Hisoka_ , he thinks, _I'm so sorry_. She could have done anything—left him there to die, stumbled (it would have been but a misstep), not caught him in time—but she _saved him_. He loves her for it, and hates her at the same time, is so consumed by guilt his everyday thoughts are plagued by her smiling visage, her face as she greeted him every morning of his life, from when he was born to the day of her death. She had been his favourite cousin, he thinks, brash but kind, and full of the kind of rare warmth which could not easily be found amongst their proper, rule-abiding family.

She is gone now—and he is the cause.

-ooo-

When he returns home, his fingers numb with the cold and kimono rendered useless by the wet snow, his uncle is waiting for him.

He is kneeling in front of the sliding doors leading to his daughter's shrine, and his eyes are tight with a feeling he had never before seen on his face. He's grieving, he notes, his clothes still black, his armour hidden away for the time of the funeral, and his mouth turned down in remembrance.

"Yoshino," he says. His voice is low, hushed with the knowledge that his daughter is but two metres away from him, represented by only a picture and a few sticks of incense. "Sit with me."

He swallows as he kneels, his hands clenching in his lap. "Uncle," he murmurs in greeting, keeping his eyes on his pale knuckles.

There is a flash of tired grey eyes from his side, and a hand reaching over to gently hit him on the back. "Stop hiding away. Do not insult her by ignoring her last wishes."

"Her last wishes?" Yoshino asks, though he thinks he already knows and just doesn't want to be reminded, and has no idea whether he is grateful or resentful of his uncle for doing this to him—for speaking about her, and for bringing the subject up. He had caused his only daughter to die, murdered her by his own foolishness and arrogance, and he cannot imagine how the man can even look at him, much less speak about her. But then, his uncle has always been strong, not only in battle, but also in life, when charging in with a sword will not aid you in any way. His uncle is a better man than he is.

"Her last wishes," the man agrees, "If she had not wanted you to live, she would not have bothered to save you. Hisoka—she always did as she wanted. If she had decided that you were more valuable to her than her own life, then that is what everyone should respect."

"She did not have to save me."

The man nods, his expression worn. "She did not—but she did, and this is what you should keep in mind."

Yoshino swallows, and his hands clench involuntarily in his lap. They are calloused, pale from living in a land where endless nights are not a rarity but a normal occurrence, and unimaginably warm. They wouldn't be, he thinks, if not for her sacrifice. He doesn't want to accept it, will spend the rest of his life repenting because that is what he wants, what her memory deserves, but he cannot help but think that if she saw him right now, she'd be ashamed.

 _What are you doing, you brat? Are you stupid enough to wallow in self-pity when you could actually do something with yourself? I did not die for you just so you could become some half-dead hermit sacrificing his time and energy thinking about my rotting corpse. I want you to live, idiot._

He can hear her voice in his head, hear the exact words she would use for what he is doing now, and he swallows down the bitter _shamesorrowrealisation_ rising up his throat. She had always been there, next to him, and now that she is not—by his own fault, no less—the only thing he can think of is how much he wants her to be. He will not disappoint her, he decides. He will train, and succeed, and do all the things she wanted him to do, and all the things he wants to do, but he will always remember. He will not forget who granted him this life, thanks to whom he is breathing and warm and his heart is still beating, and he will be forever grateful. His eyes focus, his breathing steadies, and he feels his back straighten with purpose. It will take a long time, he thinks, but when he reunites with her in the next life, he will meet her eyes and make her proud.

He turns to his uncle, and bows until his forehead touches the cold, polished floorboards of the corridor.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, "I—"

There is a tightness in his throat now, and for all his resolve, he feels a scalding, salty wetness trail down the curve of his cheekbone, and pool in the corner of his mouth. This is not the first apology he has uttered from when he was cold and shivering, crouched over her pale, bloodied body, but it is the first one he is saying directly to his uncle, too ashamed until now to face him properly. He hopes, through the tears which are already dripping down the end of his nose and staining his kimono, that he can make it count.

"I know," his uncle responds, low and sad, and suddenly there is a hand tugging on the collar of his kimono, dragging him upright and sideways until his head is nestled in the crook of a broad shoulder, and the scent of incense and polished metal invades his nose. "Make her proud, Yoshino."

"I will," he chokes out, "I promise."

-ooo-

Cultural Note: Japanese funerals (from which I am taking the traditions of the Land of Iron from—and this fic is set in the Land of Iron, did I mention that?) have this part to them-the wake-in which the closest relatives of the deceased may stay and keep vigil over the deceased overnight-this is what Yoshino did, though he was only a cousin.

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	2. Chapter 2

Summary: The life of a samurai is a hard one: "He didn't know how it happened, but it did. His sword was soaked in blood, his armour covered in grime, and he only wanted to _sleep._ Damn the war, and damn whatever idiot thought getting the samurai involved was a good idea. Damn them all." OC-centric!

Warnings: OC-centric, descriptions of violence, slash (much, much later on in the story), het, mild altering of canon plotline…lots of death and misery?

A/N: Here is chapter two! It's kind of miserable, and provides a bit of an explanation for the previous chapter. I think I'll finally get to the proper plotline in a chapter or two (or maybe not?), and then the ball will finally start rolling and there will be some action. For now, it's just background stuff. Also, DEATH, in this chapter at least, so if anyone is averse to quite vivid descriptions of corpses or death, then yeah…better stay away.

-ooo-

Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven.

Sweat runs down Yoshino's back as he swings his sword—a practice one, because at eleven, he is still too young for a proper, named sword. It is warm outside, for once, the crisp, cold air of the mountains mixing with the midsummer sunshine escaping through the canopy of tall pines guarding the backyard of his house.

It's easy to lose oneself within training, he thinks with a smile, because for all that he is not yet a master, or even a proper samurai, the swish of polished steel cutting through the air, the crunch of snow under his feet, and the air whistling past his ears as he goes through form after form, is intoxicating. He is not a training maniac, not obsessed, can pace himself, and was taught by his mother when to _stop, stop and think and plan, not barge in with arms waving,_ but even he can appreciate the mind-numbing sensation repeated training brings.

He goes through another form, sword steady and feet planted on the ground as though they've grown roots, but then there is an arm on his shoulder, and a skilled hand tugging at his sword until he relinquishes it.

"Training all day and no play make a very boring person, Yoshino," his cousin grins. There is armour tucked under her arm, and his sword is resting on the ground beside her. She has just returned from a mission, he notices, judging by the stains on her clothing and the way she keeps her left side shielded as though wounded.

"Hisoka," he greets, young voice dry but amused. "I know when to stop. I've only just started." It's not rare that she drags him away from his training, and while it can get exasperating, it's usually fun, so he never protests _too_ much.

"Yes, yes," she returns impatiently, "But I've just returned from a mission and got the urge to pester my favourite cousin, so leave that sword and go get changed, because we are going on a _walk,_ brat _."_

"A walk?"

"A walk," she agrees, "I found a trail leading to a couple of Akita dogs in the mountains, and if we find them and domesticate them, then we'll probably be able to keep a few."

His breath catches in his throat in surprise and there's excitement bubbling in his stomach now, because Akita dogs are _really_ hard to find, and expensive to trade. It's rare that you can spot a couple of wild ones in the mountains, but if you find some pups and manage to raise them to adulthood, they're endlessly loyal, and _very_ useful to have by your side during a battle.

"How did you _manage_ that?" he asks, astonished.

She smirks, smug and proud, and dusts the sleeve of her kimono with her hand so that the travel-dust and grime clinging to it fly free. "I have my secrets, brat. Now, go and change so you don't freeze on me in the mountains."

He looks at her, takes his sword from where it's still lying on the ground, and the runs home to look for warmer clothing.

-ooo-

It's a while before they're on the correct path, but by then they are cold, hungry, and wet, their clothing soaked through by melted snow and their boots crusted over with dry ice. The sun overhead does not help much, and only serves to make them sweat as their fingers turn red one by one, slowly succumbing to frostbite.

"We're not leaving," Hisoka mutters through chattering teeth, and Yoshino nods in agreement.

"I'm getting an Akita if we have to trudge for another hour," he grits out. No way is he paying a fortune when he can have one for free—a missing finger will not impact him much, as long as he keeps the frostbite away from his dominant hand, he muses. "Are you _sure_ the trail continued in this direction?"

"Pretty sure," she replies as she looks around again, "I remember the valley under us, so no worries."

"I'm just not convinced we can trust your sense of direction, cousin."

Hisoka scowls at him over her shoulder, about to shoot back a remark, but then she stops and her mouth opens without a sound escaping.

"What is it?" he asks, sarcasm gone in favour of curiosity as he looks over her shoulder at the path before them.

There isn't much of a path, actually, once he casts his eyes around them to search for a route. The mountain they're on—one of the larger ones surrounding the Land of Iron—is covered in snow even in the middle of summer, and though it isn't snowing, he knows that any footholds they find will be frozen over, covered in inches of ice. There is a valley below them, so far away that its white plains and black-green lichens are misted over from this height, but a section of mountain in front of them has broken away (most likely caused by a small avalanche), any leftover ground chipped away by strong winds. There is only a small ledge left, edging around the mountain and barely large enough to fit a grown man standing sideways.

"Now, that's just mean," his cousin mutters, and a sigh escapes her. "Guess there's nothing left for us but to turn back and come back another day."

"No," Yoshino says, and he can't control his mouth anymore, because they've come this far, trudged for _hours_ to get where they are, and if they return now they will have nothing to show for it. He's not about to turn back, and he's eleven, and slender at that—he'll fit on that ledge with no problem. There's no point in returning when there's a perfectly good path right in front of them, he justifies to himself. "I'm going there."

"What—" his cousin begins, astonishment making her tone sharp, "Are you _stupid,_ Yoshino? I thought your mother raised you better, you complete and utter _idiot."_

Yoshino's not listening though, and he is already four steps ahead of her, feet edging along the narrow chunk of rock and ice circling the mountain. Behind him, Hisoka shouts something in alarm, and tells him to _wait, you imbecile,_ while taking the first cautious steps along the ledge to get to him.

The ledge crumbles a bit as he slides along it, but when he looks back his cousin looks fine, her thin but muscled frame more than light enough to make it across the ledge safely, and he focuses again on the path in front of him. She glowers at him when he meets her eyes, and hisses, "Turn back, Yoshino!"

He ignores her, and as he shifts forward there is only a metre or two left until he'll be on the other side. He takes a step, and then another, and he is slowly but steadily inching along the ledge. He places his feet carefully and then shuffles another couple of paces, but suddenly there is no more ground left and he hears the _crackshiftfall_ of stone giving away underfoot, and he _wavers and starts falling—hedoesn'twanttodie—_ until suddenly there's a shout behind him, and a harsh hand on his wrist, twisting the skin with its tight grip, swinging him _up_ and _above,_ safely onto the other side of the mountain where it's safe. He falls hard on his tailbone, and his spine cracks against the cold ground, red bruising colouring his arms and legs.

Then, he realises he is alone. He scrambles to his feet and falls, crawls to the edge of the plate he landed on, fingers shaking and breath coming in short gasps, because _she saved him, she did, and now he thinks she landed in the valley—the valley thousands of feet below them—andthatwasfarfarfarsoveryfarbelowand—hethinkssheisdead._

His red, numb fingers scratch at the rock as he looks over the edge, and he stops breathing, his heart stops beating, and his shout is lodged in his throat and he _can't breathe_ because Hisoka is _not there_. He can't see the bottom of the valley, but there's a body lying on a ledge about fifty metres down, impaled upon sharp rocks and with its limbs splayed out like a sick caricature of the branches of new trees which bloom only in spring. Its blood dyes the surrounding ice red.

 _Hisoka,_ he mouths, soundless.

-ooo-

Cultural Note: Akita dogs originate from the mountainous northern regions of Japan, and are thought to be very intelligent and fierce, loyal primarily to their owners. I thought that this type of dog would be perfect for a samurai, and very useful to have in battle—after doing some research, I discovered that they were actually descended from a breed of hunting dog and were takes as a source of inspiration by the samurai of old for their fearless demeanour. If I got anything wrong, or if there is something anyone wants to add, please tell me so—I hate putting in wrong information!

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	3. Chapter 3

Summary: The life of a samurai was a hard one: "He didn't know how it happened, but it did. His sword was soaked in blood, his armour covered in grime, and he only wanted to _sleep_. Damn the war, and damn whatever idiot thought getting the samurai involved was a good idea. Damn them all." OC-centric!

Warnings: OC-centric, descriptions of violence, slash (much, much later on in the story), het, mild altering of canon plotline…lots of death and misery?

A/N: Chapter three incoming, and this fanfic is just _not letting go._ It's clinging to me with both hands and teeth—and legs too. By the way, I've calculated that most of the chapters should range between 1,000 to 2,000 words (unless I get ill; then there will most likely be an explosion and I'll spit out 5,000 word chapters because of sheer _boredom_ ).

-ooo-

He first meets Yoshino during the cold, harsh months of a Land of Iron winter. It's starting to get dark earlier and earlier, and he finds the boy—for he is a boy, not even twelve to Higan's fifteen—sitting, half-frozen and uncaring, near the well guarding the Kisaragi compound. Higan, of course, knows who he is (if vaguely), as it's hard to avoid knowing people even if they come from different clans. Maybe it is because the clan compounds are separated by but a wall, or maybe it is because of the frequent funerals which every clan is called to attend.

He remembers him (he stood still and pale at the recent funeral of Ichijō Hisoka, face contorted in guilt and shame), and he contemplates staying where he is for a fraction of a second. Then he discards that thought, and marches forward. He feels himself shiver in sympathy at the boy's thin kimono and red hands, and curses his soft, interfering heart.

"What's your name?" Well, he's never advertised himself as being particularly good at conversation starters, nor as well-versed in the art of subtlety. He picks a ledge on the well which isn't _too_ covered in ice, and sits down.

The boy turns to him, grey eyes clouded with thought and cold, dressed in the traditional dark-blue of the Ichijō clan.

"Yoshino. Why did you come over?" He doesn't sound rude, he notes, but vaguely curious. The dark look has melted off his face, but his fingers are still red, and the tip of his nose is a curiously vivid shade of burgundy.

"I'm Higan. I thought it would be better to talk to you before you decided to jump off the edge and poisoned what supply of water we had," he answers, expression serious. It's not that he enjoys being annoying, he muses distantly, but he cannot help himself when somebody is brooding. _Life is too short to waste on the past_ , his grandfather often says, and for all of Higan's sympathy, he's definitely not _soft._ He doesn't do quiet encouragements and pats on the back.

A look of mild amusement surfaces on Yoshino's face. "I wasn't about to jump, I was just thinking. And if I was about to, I'd choose a better spot. There isn't enough space to stretch your arms in here."

Higan smothers a laugh, entertained despite himself. "The lake would be a better choice," he nods.

Yoshino hums in agreement, and shifts in his spot against the well wall. "Really, though, why did you come over? I wasn't exactly exuding friendly vibes, I imagine."

"You looked as though you needed me to."

It's the start of a beautiful friendship.

-ooo-

A year down the road, Yoshino tells Higan the story behind Hisoka's death. He's pale and shaking, his hands clenched in his lap, his back straight but head bowed in what can only be shame. He mentions his arrogance, his stupidity, and Higan nods.

"Yeah, you were stupid, weren't you?"

A spasm rocks through Yoshino's body, and he nods, a tight laugh escaping him almost against his will. "So, so stupid."

"But you've learnt better now, haven't you?"

His head shoots up, and he looks, uncomprehending, up at Higan. Higan takes a deep breath, and continues, "You were a brat, and your actions were _really_ damn stupid, but you regret it, don't you? You won't do it again. And I doubt your cousin would want you to beat yourself up over her death for the rest of your life. It happened, it's done. No need to dig it up again and again."

Yoshino looks at him, his mouth opening and closing, and then he laughs, slightly astonished but bright again. "That's the conclusion I arrived at, but I don't think anyone has ever said it quite that way before." He reaches up and ruffles his long hair, wiping at his eyes even though they're already dry.

"Well, I do have a way with words," Higan says, grinning, "Though I think that if Hisoka could see you right now, she'd be satisfied that her sacrifice was not in vain." Here, he gestures at the sword next to Yoshino's side, bright and gleaming, the dark scabbard marked with the crest of the Ichijō clan. _Yamanoi_ , he'd called her, reverently trailing his fingers along her sharp, silver-blue blade.

Yoshino smiles, slightly sad, and nods. "I certainly hope so."

-ooo-

Yoshino's fourteen and Higan's seventeen when they start taking assignments together. They work well as a pair, making up for the holes in each other's defence, each one a step behind the other, anticipating the next move, the next shift, even before it is completed. Yoshino is sharp and fast, going in and out, never staying near his opponent more than necessary. Wolf tactics, Higan would call them—do as much damage as you can and then back away until your next chance. Higan is clever and sly, darting close and intimidating, fighting more with his strength and brains and his opponent's weaknesses than a concrete plan. He uses his height, keeps them close and right where he wants them, right up until they notice the sword aiming at their neck, and then he _strikes._ They're more alike than they think, but different enough for it to count, and Higan is glad for that.

Sometimes, sometimes, he needs reining in, his more dangerous plans need a second look, and he needs a solid _no_ to make him stop. He's easy-going and usually fairly rational, but sometimes he overestimates himself, and then Yoshino comes in. Ashamed of his past, he knows where his boundaries lie, keeps a religiously constant eye on any rash action he might have to take, any danger he might put himself and others in, and he is the _no_ Higan needs. His past might have made an impact on him, caused him guilt and sleepless nights, but it also taught him, made him _better,_ and for that they're both grateful.

Higan is glad for it.

-ooo-

Cultural Note: None

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